That spare Bergius propeller had begun revolving in his mind days ago,—“thrud—thrud—thrud! See me drive the Sarah, see me drive the Sarah!” He had examined the propeller already attached and found the blades all broken. The shaft was intact, and, beaching the Haliotis stern on in that quiet lagoon, it would have been possible to fit on the spare one and take her off unmasted, as she was under her own motive power.
He had a vague notion of the structure of engines and Yankee ingenuity enough to have driven her, but the fact of her anchor being down, as before stated, and the fact that he had already “torn the tripes” out of her plundered the sail room and the store room, removed brasswork that would have taken weeks to replace, and generally left her like a scooped cheese, prevented an idea of salvage.
Taking the Haliotis into port he would have to declare her like a box of cigars,—a box of cigars belonging to another man and half the cigars gone.
Coming over the rail, Ratcliffe saw the new light in his eye and wondered what it portended.
“I’ve been thinkin’,” said Satan, taking his stand by the mast stump and surveying the heap of stuff collected by the other, “I’ve been thinkin’ it’s tomfoolery to leave that engine.”
Jude, brought up by the sound of the dinghy coming alongside, appeared at the saloon companionway. She wore no hat.
“Good Lord!” said Ratcliffe, aghast. “You don’t mean to say—but it’s impossible. We haven’t the means to take it.”
“There’s enough of the mast left to rig a tackle to,” said Satan, “and that hatch leads right down to the engine place. The heavy fittin’s are easy raised from the bed-plates, and they’re not too heavy to go in the dinghy. We can tow her with the c’lapsible.”
“But what can you do with the thing?”
“Fit her to the Sarah, of course.”